hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

Okay, kids, you know the drill. Don't be a jerk except to fictional characters. Warn if you want, but read at your own risk, because

hydratrashmeme is about as far from a safe space as you can get. Garbage we like: noncon, whump, aftermath, violence, mind control, inappropriate uses of Bucky Barnes' metal arm, bad guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves. Garbage you should find a different trashcan for: a/b/o, D/s-verse, soulbonds, mundane AUs, OOC evil!good guys doing dirtybadwrong things to your faves, rotting leftovers dressed up as a romantic gourmet meal. Nothing wrong with 'em, but this isn't the crowd you should be pitching to if you're trying to sell Brock Rumlow as anything but a human dumpster fire.

Link your fills on the fill post, post unprompted fills as replies to a header comment so the wall o' text is collapsible, and let me know if you're interested in helping out with the Pinboard archive.

[Rules in full] [Round 1] [Round 2] [Round 3] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

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All prompts or fills that contain Infinity War spoilers must go on the Infinity War spoiler post until May 26th. Spoilers in the main dumpsters will be deleted.

Round 4 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 5.

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Sometimes, though, he would be required to perform humanity, never for long and never too convincingly, just enough to slip into place and do what he needed. He would be required to watch and absorb and apply just enough to corrode their defenses. He kept these pieces for future use, reminders of what people were like outside of these walls.

He regurgitated these ideas and experiences in what he thought was a convincing way, a head fake toward reassurance that he was like Rogers. He practiced having opinions as he lay down to sleep, and the next day, he would share them with Rogers as though they were his own. Rogers would shamelessly ask openly probing questions like, “Where do they take you when you’re not here?” and the Soldier would turn timid and lie, “Not far. A few corridors away. I keep my head down.”

They did not discuss the room. They did not discuss the steadily-increasing damage visible on Rogers’ body, the healing that was beginning to slow, or the crust of blood that thickened every day. He catalogued the stains and smears because in the vacuum of this space, they did not change. They were as resistant to time as bootprints on the moon. They were hot and red when he drew them into being as the Soldier, oxidized to a dull brown by the time he returned as Call Me Jimmy.

On the sixth day, as he was shoved into the room, his gaze landed on fresh red staining the floor.

Rogers was on his side, one arm wrapped around his abdomen, the other pillowing his head. He didn’t acknowledge the Soldier.

Had someone else been in to do the Soldier’s work? Were they doubting him already? Irritation bloomed, a molten trickle between his shoulder blades that he itched to shake off. The irritation made it easier to suppress the rage -- he wasn’t angry that someone might have touched Rogers, just that his mission was being interfered with, just that his abilities were being called into question. He wasn’t concerned. But it wasn’t like he could ask about it -- how could he possibly know that that blood wasn’t meant to be there without tipping his hand to the rest of it?

Rogers pushed himself up heavily. The Soldier watched the lengthy process it took for him to decide how to sit. He avoided sitting on his injured ass but seemed tired of lying down, tried to rest on his knees and rocked back as if he’d been burned -- it could have been the pain from the deep and constant bruising in his legs, but from the pinched look on his face, the Soldier suspected it was mental. He’d been forced to his knees too many times already and couldn’t stand it a second longer than he had to. He finally settled on his coccyx, back curved awkwardly against the wall to accommodate the unconventional position.

Rogers was slow to begin his usual attempt at intelligence-gathering and idle chatter, but eventually he did, and the Soldier obliged, playing along as if there weren’t fresh blood in his peripheral every time he looked in Rogers’ direction. As if it weren’t spurring possibility after possibility in his mind.

He realized, halfway through a retelling of an action/thriller with Rogers’ pithy commentary interspersed, that he’d had more complete thoughts since Rogers’ arrival than he could remember having in the previous month. The days were distinct from one another instead of sliding together. It was alarming.

It took him a few heartbeats to notice that Rogers had stopped talking, had sighed. He realized why almost immediately: he’d been staring at the floor while his thoughts churned.

“A week of rations like that and not enough water’ll do that to a guy,” he said dryly.

The Soldier didn’t understand the implication at first, or the cagey look on his face, until he abruptly did. No one else had been here. He coughed. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Hey, you don’t run the kitchen.”

The unspoken not your fault rankled him down to his toes. Of course it was his fault. Rogers just didn’t know.

But there were ways to undo the man without leaving his body unable to function within a stone’s throw of normal working order. They’d told him to do his work and left it up to his interpretation. That left him some room to reinterpret. He considered his options.

“You said there were four sequels?”

-

The Soldier procured lubricant. He’d gone out on a limb for this one, explaining to the lab technician that the chronic chafing on his penis was becoming a distraction in the field. His heart had jumped in his throat as he’d waited, and then the man had laughed and said that there was something to be said for reliable constants, and wasn’t it something that deep down, the Winter Soldier was just like every other man after all. He’d nodded and smiled, taking the bottles with an utterance of gratitude that sat heavy on his tongue like iron.

Not knowing when he’d be able to resupply, he was sparing in its application, using only enough to prevent injury but not significantly reduce discomfort. For the receiver, at any rate -- it did feel substantially better for him, but that was entirely beside the point. Of course, the easier it was for him, the sooner it was over for them both. He deliberated only briefly on whether to use any of it on his other duties, but his decision was easy; most of them only got a visit from him once in a while, not every damn night. Rogers needed every drop the Soldier could get.

He hid the small bottle with his ammunition. Sometimes they examined or serviced his weapons, but they never checked his ammo unless he asked for more, and since he brought his tools with him every night, this ensured that it would remain on him when he needed it. He stashed the other in the frame of his cot just in case.

The first time, he probed gently with his flesh hand, slick and slow, feeling for damage and finding some noticeable spots that made Rogers shudder. A normal man might have been very sick by now, but Rogers’ constitution left him merely incredibly uncomfortable. It would have been wise to leave him be for several days at least, but that was all the leeway he was going to get.

He thought about the ice cream parlor with the bizarre flavors Rogers had been telling him about while he pounded away no more gently than before.

-

Rogers didn’t eat his provided meals for a few days, but he didn’t insist that the Soldier consume them either. He ignored them completely, save for the cup, and by the time the Soldier returned for his evening visit, the trays would be gone. The Soldier hoped that when some of the pain receded, he’d eat again.

He’d been losing weight almost from the beginning. The Soldier laid his hands over Rogers’ hips every time he found him on the platform, feeling for the shape of his bones and the heft of his muscle. Every change in the dips and valleys was noted. He resolved on the third day of his meal avoidance to convince Rogers to eat somehow.

Once, with his fingers tracing Rogers’ hipbones, his side flexed violently. He did it again, on the other side, and the same thing happened, and in morbid fascination, he continued. He’d gotten more reaction from mapping the sensitive, ticklish spaces on his body than he had inflicting any number of pains. There was a lesson there. He kept at it for a while, pleased to have found an effective method that wouldn’t leave marks. Of course, some marks had to be left, so they would know he’d done what he was supposed to, but the battleground wasn’t really Rogers’ body. It was in his mind.

He’d take whatever path he could to convince him to stay down.

He’d thought he was making an impression for a few days, with Rogers growing more sullen and asking fewer questions during their days together, until he picked one that stopped the Soldier in his tracks.

“What do you know about a hitter with an advanced prosthetic arm?”

all of this is amazing!!!!

There's so much I love about all of this, so here's just a bit--
- omg omg you have an outline!!
- the compliance of long-time prisoners ffs Bucky
- I love Bucky's attempts at kindness given his extremely limited power
- Steeb I have so many feels about him! Even tho his body is getting weaker his mind is sharp as ever. They'll never keep you down Steeb!! (I'm such a fan of tiny!Steve lol)
- aw crap they're probably gonna wipe Bucky some time and that's going to be so confusing/heartbreaking for Steve D:
- oh jeez all of the torture makes me think about what they did to break Bucky
- I love the information imbalances here -- WS doesn't know he looks like Bucky. Steve doesn't know (?) that WS can stop his escape plans. Neither of them knows the extent of WS' role in breaking Steve.

Anyway, MUCH EXCITE!!!

Thank you! Ha, yeah, the outline is real. I haven't gotten the chance to work on it for a few weeks, so I'm really glad I left such thorough notes for myself now that I'm back at it. I'm definitely continuing this one. Man, are they going to go through the wringer, though. Poor dudes.

yay! *camps out*

I AM EXCITE!

Argggghhhh this is so tense! It has me on the edge of my seat. The soldier's so turned around here, it's so horrible to watch. And of course I feel bad for poor Steve, who thinks he's so alone in all of this. You've done really fascinating things with all the little bits and pieces they don't know about each other.

Thank you! I'm really trying to play with the identity porn aspect of it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Dumpster #4: I Don't See How That's a Party

FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity

Re: FILL: Daybreak part 7/? Re: Identity Porn in captivity